


The Heist

by bea_bickerknife



Category: A Series of Unfortunate Events (TV), A Series of Unfortunate Events - Lemony Snicket
Genre: Bisexual Murder Girlfriends, F/F, Implied Museum Sex, Narrow Avoidance of Inadvertent Death by Switchblade, One of Very Few Fics Ever to be Based Around a Polish Art Deco Painting, The Inevitable Art Heist Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-09
Updated: 2017-12-09
Packaged: 2019-04-14 10:52:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,076
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14134572
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bea_bickerknife/pseuds/bea_bickerknife
Summary: Twenty years ago, Georgina Orwell might have broken into the Municipal Museum of Modern Art to decode a secret message in a still life, or to attend a cramped clandestine rendezvous inside an unusually large sculpture.Tonight, she was picking up a birthday present.





	The Heist

**Author's Note:**

  * For [DoggieHowserMD](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DoggieHowserMD/gifts).



> As ever, I own none of the characters in this work, nor do I derive any remuneration from its posting.

If you have ever returned to an old hobby – swimming, perhaps, or hosting masquerade balls, or hiding inside musical instruments in order to gain entrance into the green rooms of various opera houses – then you have probably heard the phrase “like riding a bicycle.” As I am sure you are aware, propelling one’s body through water requires very few of the same skills as propelling a two-wheeled vehicle down a busy road. Furthermore, a pair of tight-fitting shorts rarely constitutes appropriate attire for overseeing an evening of formal but anonymous entertainment, and it is generally inadvisable to pump one’s legs up and down while concealed beneath the lid of a grand piano, particularly if one is not alone. In fact, very few experiences can accurately be compared to riding a bicycle, which is why this particular phrase has come to refer more broadly to any skill that, once acquired, is never forgotten.

Georgina Orwell had never owned a bicycle. Dangling from the grappling hook she had secured to the maintenance hatch in the glass dome high above, it occurred to her that it had been years – decades, even – since the last time she had found herself in this position, but as she shinnied down the last few feet of rope, she smirked to herself.

 _Just like riding a bike_. 

Pain pulsed through her wrists and twinged down into her fingers. _That_ hadn’t been a problem twenty years ago. _Then again,_ she thought ruefully, prowling down the wide and silent corridor, _things change. Allegiances. Intentions_. The base of her left thumb began to throb. _Joints_. Twenty years ago, she might have broken into the Municipal Museum of Modern Art to decode a secret message in a still life, or to attend a cramped clandestine rendezvous inside an unusually large sculpture.

Tonight, she was picking up a present.

Georgina’s eyes slid from painting to painting. Sharp lines, vivid colors, dramatic angles – any one of the works on display would look at home at 667 Dark Avenue for as long as Art Deco was _in_. Rounding the corner into the hall dedicated to temporary exhibitions, however, she found herself face to face with the only one that stood a chance of remaining in Esmé’s collection once it was _out_.

[ _LA BELLE RAFAËLA_](https://t.umblr.com/redirect?z=https%3A%2F%2Fusw2-uploads1.wikiart.org%2Fimages%2Ftamara-de-lempicka%2Fla-belle-rafaela-1927.jpg&t=MDRlMDNmMTBkNmExOGY4ZjNjMmMzMDYyZWEzZmZjZWE2MDBhMDhjYixPT2p1Ym15Mg%3D%3D&b=t%3ApRIztj02kir2mtH_87m5GQ&p=https%3A%2F%2Fparsleysoda1984.tumblr.com%2Fpost%2F168351414277%2Ffor-orwhistle-and-for-eswell&m=1), read the placard beside it. _T. De Lempicka. Oil on canvas. 1927._ Georgina smiled, remembering.

 _So you like modern art,_ she had commented sometime during the soup course on their first evening together.

 _I’m a collector_ , Esmé had replied, as though that amounted to the same thing. _Tamara De Lempicka, at the moment. All my life I’ve simply **adored** her work, and I have it on good authority that it’s going to be **in** soon, so I’m planning to make a few new acquisitions. _

_Any favorites?_ It should have been mildly stimulating small talk, but _stimulating_ turned out to have been an understatement. By the time Esmé finished rhapsodizing about the glow of naked skin and the visual stylization of sensual pleasure, they had been midway through the rack of lamb, and there had been nothing mild about the tingling ache between Georgina’s thighs.    

She stood back to examine the painting. The lighting struck her as Dutch, or possibly renaissance Italian, but the model’s blunt black bob marked her as modern. Lush but stark, intimate but detached, and unequivocally, unapologetically carnal – even if she hadn’t heard it described down to the very finest detail, Georgina might have guessed that the piece in front of her would be Esmé’s favorite.

It was also the most inconveniently displayed. Lit from above by a pair of spotlights, it hung alone on the far wall across from the entryway, in full view of any passing security guard.

 _Better get going, then_. Stepping forward, she flicked open her switchblade. Standing in a pool of light with her back to the door, she felt almost unbearably exposed, but she didn’t dare rush this, didn’t dare risk ruining it with a shaky hand or a sloppy cut. _Medical school all over again_ , she thought wryly. ‘ _We’ll start the incision in the upper left…’_

The steel was sharp, lethally so, slicing through the canvas with a sound like a whisper. One slow, smooth movement separated the top of the painting from its gilt frame. With a twist of her wrist, she sliced down the right-hand side. Another twist. The knife had just finished its painstaking journey along the bottom edge when a sudden telltale chill prickled up her neck.

 _How appropriate_. The heat of the spotlight beams beat down on the back of her head. _An audience_.

At least the guards weren’t armed, she reminded herself. That gave her the advantage. Keeping her back turned, she forced herself to continue cutting. Best to keep the element of surprise. Best to let them come closer, lure them within range of her knife. Footsteps closed in behind her, her grip tightened, she whirled around, and –

“I’d really rather you didn’t, darling,” commented Esmé, glancing down at the spot on her chest where the tip of the switchblade dimpled her dress.

“ _Christ_.” Georgina lowered the knife. “I thought you were a guard.”

“Well, as positively _fetching_ as I’m sure I’d look in the uniform, I’m afraid there aren’t any guards in this museum tonight, at least not anymore. So go on, which piece struck your fancy?” The canvas had begun to furl around itself, obscuring the image, but when she caught sight of the placard, her face turned stormy. “ _La Belle Rafaëla_? But that’s the one _I_ – ”

Wordlessly, the optometrist raised an eyebrow.

A long moment passed and the storm clouds lifted, but before she could identify the expression that took their place, Esmé was kissing her. “You remembered?” she asked, pulling back wide-eyed.

 _As if I could forget_ , Georgina wanted to say, but she nodded instead. “You’ll want to save a little of that shock for later, now that you’ve spoiled the surprise.” 

“I’ve hardly _spoiled_ it, darling.” Esmé bent to pick up the switchblade, which had clattered to the marble floor somewhere around the time Georgina’s fingers had sunk into her hair. “And anyway,” she added, handing it over handle-first, “we both you you’re _more_ than capable of finding some other way to surprise me.”

 _Let’s see. Alone in an unguarded art museum for another –_ her watch confirmed it – _four hours._ Georgina accepted the knife with a sly smile. “Oh,” she replied, “I’m sure I will.”

**Author's Note:**

> This piece was requested by Tumblr user @countolafnph.


End file.
